


Living the Dream

by NuclearMcDuck



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Death, Drugged Sex, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearMcDuck/pseuds/NuclearMcDuck
Summary: Will is the man of Hannibal's dreams. Hannibal is the man in Will's dreams.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Living the Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [impilii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impilii/gifts).



> For the CIE2020 - wish I had more time to flesh it out, but I hope that you enjoy it!

“I’ve been having… Dreams,” Will says quietly.

Hannibal shifts, head tilting to the side. “You have told me this. Your dreams of fading. Have they changed?”

Will’s blank expression shifts into a wry grin, but there is a tightness in his shoulders, and a furrow in his brow that hints at how disquieted he is. He’s been oddly quiet this session, talking circles around whatever it is that has been ailing him, staring at his drink more than his therapist.

Hannibal has his suspicions, but he doesn’t dare to hope.

“Very much so,” Will admits, eyes wandering the room, never quite landing on Hannibal.

Will is not comfortable with eye contact, with few exceptions; Hannibal is one such exception. This aversion is a development.

“Would you like to tell me about them?” Hannibal asks, inclining his head invitingly.

“Honestly? No,” Will says, forcing himself to chuckle. He takes another graceless swig from the wineglass, swallows heavily.

“You are surrounded and submerged in death and horror every day,” Hannibal coaxes. “You should not be ashamed if these experiences follow you into your dreams.”

“It’s not…” Will covers his mouth with his palm, kneading his hand into his chin as he struggles to articulate his troubles. “Well, it is. Violent. But there’s… More.”

“You seem ashamed,” Hannibal suggests. “Is it that you are growing more comfortable with your dreams? Do you think that you should reject any satisfaction in them?”

Will tilted his head, thinking.

“… Maybe,” He said quietly, mouth still hidden behind his hand. “They’re… Vivid. And not…” He glanced around the room again, shifted in his seat, abruptly grabbed his glass and took a deep draught, set it down with a loud clang on the glass side table. “I don’t hate them,” He blurted, “But I should.”

“Why don’t you tell me about them?” Hannibal suggests. “Tell me what is different about them that has made them less terrible.”

Will barks an uncomfortable laugh. “Am I telling you as a friend, or as a therapist?”

“We’re just chatting, Will – like we’ve said before,” Hannibal chides him.

“I think I would feel more comfortable telling a therapist this than a friend,” Will says, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I also think you’d be the only person in the world who would understand.”

“Oh?” Hannibal leaves the question hanging in the air.

“What would you say…?” Will starts, then pauses, shakes his head, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He glares at his feet and mutters angrily – then his head lifts, and he meets Hannibal’s gaze with a fierce intensity. “What would you say if you were in them?”

Hannibal gives him an easy smile, heart soaring. “I would be flattered,” He says, and Will laughs uneasily. “But I assume, given that your dreams are troubling you, that maybe you should elaborate on my role in them…? Are you dreaming about people close to you being hurt?”

“… No, not exactly,” Will says, swallowing hard. “I… I wouldn’t… I would love to let it go. But the dreams keep coming back, always so vivid, and at first I almost thought… I almost thought that they were real?”

In spite of himself, Hannibal’s heart is in his throat. “Tell me,” He urges him.

Of course Hannibal already knew every detail, but he was curious to see what Will remembered; what he made of it.

_He had chosen this victim because Will had been reviewing his case files. He’d been searching for anything that might resemble the Chesapeake Ripper amongst thousands of killings. He hadn’t found it this man’s files, but Will knew who and what this man was, perhaps better than the man understood himself._

_Will is still hazy, but even in his semi-aware state – doped and stupid – his eyes focus, intently, on the figure strapped to the gurney. He had sectioned off this entire section of his basement for today’s exercise._

_“No introductions are necessary,” Hannibal says lightly, sitting in an exact replica of the chair in office. He’d thought it would be a nice touch, having himself ensconced in the trappings of his psychiatric office while Will was here; it would add to the unreality of it. “You know this man.”_

_“Wayne Marlin,” Will slurs, lips catching on the words._

_“That’s right,” Hannibal smiles, gracefully picking up his wineglass and sipping delicately at it, eyes on Will._

_“Monster,” Will says, clearer this time; for his part, Wayne shakes and pulls at his bindings, eyes wide and fearful, but he can get little more than whimpers and pathetic moans past the ball gag._

_“Do you suppose he is feeling an ounce of the fear that his victims felt?” Hannibal goads, casually pouring himself another glass. He wants Will’s self-righteous rage to spur him into action; but he also wants to know if his ability to empathise so deeply is accessible in his altered state of mind._

_Will’s mouth moves without words forming, but the ardent shaking of his head answered nonetheless. “Coward.” He finally manages to spit._

_“Do you suppose that’s why he targeted children, teenagers? A weaker victim, less able to fight back?”_

_Will inhales sharply, his shoulders tensing, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides._

_“Will?”_

_“Survival… Of the fittest,” Will had to speak slowly, his addled mind stumbling over the words. “The small fear the strong, might is right.”_

_Hannibal relaxes back in his chair, sighing contentedly._

_Will takes a step closer to the gurney, visibly struggling to hold his balance as his weight shifts forward. His head tips forward, but his eyes hold Wayne Marlin’s. “I am six foot four, two-hundred and forty pounds of muscle and steroids; I can take what I want, do what I want, to anyone. I prey on the weak, thrilled in knowing that there is nothing they can do once within arm’s reach.” Will’s eyes dart to the tools Hannibal has left on the tray next to the gurney. Wayne’s eyes dart there too, and the tears that had been brimming in his eyes begin to fall._

_“This is my design.”_

_Will lifts an arm, reaches for the tray. His fingers, though uncoordinated, brush lightly over the handle of the rongeurs, the craniotome, the array of scalpels, before his fingers wrap around the lancet._

_Wayne’s wordless pleas increase in volume, in terrified pitch, while Will lifts the instrument. He holds in delicately in a palmer grip, eyes drawn to the light that glints off the blade._

_“The chase is as easy as it is thrilling,” He continues in his slow cadence, idly tilting the blade, letting the shine of it occupy his eyes. “They are so eager. I promise drugs, and I see the greed and desire in their eyes cloud their judgement. A smile is so disarming. I don’t need a weapon once they’re close enough.”_

_Will presses the blade gently to Wayne’s exposed abdomen, lightly brushing it over the dusting of light hair trailing down from his belly button._

_“I want to keep them alive, but they make it so difficult,” Will snarls, abruptly gripping the lancet with his fist, fingers turning white under the pressure, and he stabs the blade into Wayne’s belly; Wayne arches as much as the restraints will allow, screaming into the gag. “They just squeal so nicely.”_

_“This is supposed to last. I want them to last, but it’s just so tempting. So hard to hold back,” Will twists the blade, still gripping it in his fist, and blood spurts from the wound. The blade is entirely submerged, as is part of the handle; Will’s knuckles are smeared with blood where they are pressed against Wayne’s navel._

_Will smiles. Hannibal catches his reflection in his wine glass, and realises that he is smiling, too._

“I get…” Will pauses, searching for the right word. “Angry.”

“As do we all,” Hannibal responds easily.

“I- _yes_ , but, I mean… The killers. That we investigate. What they _do_. It makes me angry.”

“That sounds like a perfectly healthy reaction,” Hannibal assures him.

“But I _understand_ them, too,” He goes on, ignoring Hannibal. “I see in their minds, I know why they see the world the way they do… I know there is nothing I can do to change them.”

“Empathy is your power, Will,” He tilts his head. “Your power that enables you to catch them. Without your ability to see the world through their eyes, they would be free to hunt and kill.”

“Jack is afraid it’s changing me,” Will admits hesitantly.

“I am aware of Jack Crawford’s concerns regarding you, even as he continues to put your abilities to use.” He sees the way Will stiffens, defensive. “You _know_ I know. Has something changed?”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Will crumples in on himself, sinking down in the chair, hiding his face in one hand. “I dream of killing them; the killers I read about, I dream of torturing them. I dream of enacting every sick, evil thing they’ve done, and paying them back in kind.”

Hannibal sits up straight in his chair, eyes alight. Will, face buried in his hand, doesn’t see it.

“I can recreate the photos of the scenes from _memory_ , and every time they gasp, or scream, or gurgle pleas through their own blood, I- I…” He crosses his arms, stares at the ceiling. His eyes glisten. He’s beautiful. “I feel _good_. Like I’m doing something _good_.”

_After, once Will has finished, he is able to do little more than stand and sway on the spot, eyes roaming over the carnage. The pieces strewn on the floor, strips of flesh and skin. The retractors, still holding open the ribcage. Will looks like he is going to be ill, so Hannibal knows now is the time to intervene._

_“Sit with me, Will,” He says lightly, indicating the second chair._

_Will’s eyes snap open, fixing on Hannibal’s. “Is this real?” He whimpers, lower lip trembling._

_Hannibal simply waves at the chair, indicating Will sit. Will stumbles forward, all but collapsing into the seat._

_“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Hannibal says, pouring a glass for Will. He keeps it carefully separate from his own; as lovely as it would be to join Will on his trip, sadly, some things cannot be._

_Will’s hands are shaking too much, and too wet with blood and viscera, to take the glass. Hannibal holds it to his lips instead. “Drink, Will.”_

_Will does; his hands, red, cup Hannibal’s on the stem of the glass. They leave wet fingerprints._

_When Will turns his head away, Hannibal pulls back, puts the glass aside, and resumes his seat._

_Will stares at him, pupils blown wide. His eyes dart over to the body of Wayne Milne every few seconds, but Hannibal wants his focus on them for the time being. “Will.”_

_Will jolts, eyes jumping back to him. He runs his palms up and down the tops of his thighs, leaving bloody smears._

_“What’s on your mind?” He asks._

_Will laughs, then slaps a hand over his mouth, as though shocked by the sound. His face, already spattered with blood, bears a red handprint as he lowers his hand back to his knees, resumes rubbing. A self-soothing behaviour._

_Hannibal wants to lick the blood from his lips. He settles for licking a spot of blood Will left on his hand._

_Will’s eyes widen, and his hands pause to grip tightly at his knees._

_“Thirty-three,” Will whispers._

_“Pardon?”_

_“Thirty-three men and boys killed, over eleven years. B-between the ages of…” Will swallows, starts again. “Between the ages of thirteen and twenty-four. Small in stature, almost frail. Tortured for days, assaulted. Raped. Bodies mutilated, raped again. It’s just…”_

_Hannibal doesn’t dare interrupt. Will gets so chatty, like this. He wants to justify it –_ needs _to justify it._

_“It’s not justice, to lock them up and hope they die before they can be freed. Wayne Marlin, he doesn’t deserve to be recognised. He deserves to suffer and disappear, just like his victims.”_

_Hannibal can’t help himself. “Do you want to kill them all? The people whose crimes you examine?”_

_Will nods. He sinks back in the chair, legs splaying out, hands on his knees. Hannibal’s eyes are drawn to the apex of his legs, and he can’t suppress a smile at what he finds there._

_Will has let his head fall back, eyes drifting closed. “I could kill all of them. Easier than running an investigation. Faster. I could end more of them before they had a chance to kill again. Collating evidence, building a case… It takes so long.” His hands resume running up and down his thighs, and Hannibal finds himself pressing his knuckles to his lips, tongue darting out to taste the blood._

Hannibal stands and closes the distance between them, perching himself on the arm of Will’s chair. Will can’t bring himself to look at him, turning his eyes to the window instead, and he flinches when Hannibal lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. But he doesn’t pull away.

“You spend hour after hour, every day, pouring over the life’s work of killers. Why feel guilt over a desire for vengeance?” He feels Will lean into his hand, watching him worry at his lower lip. “Why not let your mind simply process these feelings, without judging yourself so harshly?”

“It’s one thing to have nightmares,” Will snaps, pulling away from Hannibal’s hand. He stands and paces, Hannibal remaining seated on the arm of the chair, watching him. “It’s another thing _entirely_ to… _Enjoy_ them.”

Hannibal schools his expression, face carefully blank as he responds, “Of course you enjoy them; you find satisfaction in preventing harm to others. Why is that wrong?”

“No, I mean…” Will falters, steps halting. He stands in the middle of Hannibal’s office, looking lost. He takes a long inhale, holds it; exhales slowly. “Jack would remove me from active duty if he even suspected his psychoanalyst was having _wet dreams_ about _murder_.”

_“You are aroused,” Hannibal points out._

_Will goes still._

_Hannibal almost regrets voicing it, as he has stopped Will’s soliloquy, but the way his jeans are pressed to the bulge is unmistakable, and he’s curious to see what Will will do._

_Gingerly, one of Will’s hands drifts up his thigh, palm coming to rest over it. Will’s breath hitches, and he slowly lowers his head to confirm it with his eyes._

_“… I’m not- I-” He presses his palm down ever so lightly, hissing at the pressure, biting down hard on his lower lip._

_Hannibal wonders if he can taste the blood on his lips. If he does, he doesn’t react to it. His focus is on his erection._

_He slides his palm back and forth over himself, occasionally focusing on the head, rubbing small circles. He stares at where his bloody hand runs over the black denim, transfixed._

_Hannibal wonders how much of this is the MDMA, or the acid, or the amphetamines, versus how much of it is Will. He is certain that Will knows the thrill of the hunt, but how much pleasure does he derive from it? Is this purely a result of the psychoactive drugs, or are they simply breaking down the barriers that Will has clung to for so long?_

_Will doesn’t stop rubbing himself when Hannibal asks, “Can you talk me through what’s going through your head right now?”_

_Will’s fingers press on the edges of the bulge, squeezing lightly. “Euphoria,” He sighs._

_“Because Wayne Marlin is no longer a threat?” He suggests._

_Will’s fingers tighten at the name, clawing at his erection, which has him arching off the chair, glasses sliding askew._

_“Because you, yourself, ended his threat to the society?”_

_Will nods feverishly, now using both hands to fumble with the zipper on his jeans._

_“Because you have saved the lives of countless young men by removing this one man from the world?”_

_Will manages to pull the zip down, fishing desperately in his boxers to pull himself out; he manages it, slicking himself with his bloody hands as he roughly jerks himself off._

_Hannibal is glad he is recording this, despite the risks that poses. He doesn’t know how he lived without seeing Will like this – mouth hanging open, glasses sliding off his face, whimpering in time with the movement of his hand. Dripping with blood, soaked in it._

_He wants to touch himself, but it seems rude; this is Will’s moment, not his._

_He wants to share this moment with Will, if only Will were willing to partake whilst sober._

_For now, he has this. And it is certainly gratifying, in its own way._

“Wet dreams,” Hannibal repeats, allowing himself to look surprised. “So you are experiencing some sexual gratification in your dreams of vengeance?”

“They’re just so vivid,” Will whispers, closing his eyes. “I almost _look forward_ to them now.”

It takes great effort not to let his rapturous joy show on his face. “Your mind is protecting you; you know you will be subjected to things that harm you, but you do it anyway, because you know that your work saves lives. Would you rather feel only the horror? If your mind is offering you pleasure instead, why not let it?”

Will turns his head to meet Hannibal’s eyes. “There’s a difference between being satisfied with a successful investigation, and _this_. It was supposed to be the thing that separates me from _them_.”

“From the killers you chase?” Hannibal asks.

Will nods mutely. Hannibal wants to kiss the shame off of his face.

“You’re better than them, Will,” Hannibal says earnestly, internally debating taking Will’s hand in his own. He opts not to, but his hand itches with want.

“Please don’t tell Jack,” Will begs him.

“My lips are sealed,” Hannibal swears.

_The aftermath is healing for both of them. A mild sedative leaves Will, already doped to his eyeballs, limp and docile. He allows Hannibal to bathe him, carefully removing every trace of the night’s events from his body. A basin of water, refilled several times as the water turns red, several disposable cloths. He uses a set of manicuring tools to remove the blood and skin from Will’s fingernails. He washes and dries his hair. He dries him with a towel once he is clean, and carefully redressed him in the pyjamas he went to sleep in._

_He drives Will back to his home, greeting his excited dogs as he carries him, bridal style, back to his bed._

_Dawn is breaking, but Will will likely sleep until the afternoon. He will wake in his bed, his home exactly how he remembered leaving it, and he will remember snippets of the night before as distorted, dreamlike fragments._

_The hardest part is this one; leaving. Knowing that Will is not yet ready. He has so much potential._

_He brushes a lock of hair from Will’s forehead, and bends low to press a light kiss there._

_Hannibal has overseen the growth of many protégés in this fine art. None have inspired him the way Will does._

* * *

There are several months of chaos and close calls.

Will discovering Abigail’s involvement with her father’s murders; framing Will, and having him locked in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; the mistrial; Miriam Lass, and having Chilton framed as the Chesapeake Ripper to clear Will’s name – and his own.

Will gives him Randall Tier. Hannibal arranges “Lounds” as Shiva. The Vergers squabble, and he and Will watch the elder Verger tear off his own face.

All this time, Hannibal falls deeper.

He is risking everything, chasing Will. The possibility of what they could do together – be together – seems worth losing everything he has built here.

He has the tickets to France. He just needs to know that Will is with him.

* * *

Will is tired.

He sits in his car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, mind caught in a vicious loop.

It was undeniable to him, now, that there was something inside him that was capable of unspeakable horrors. Jack had never looked at him the same way since Randall Tier. He hadn’t looked at _himself_ the same way.

When Randall leapt through his window, he’d discarded the gun because he _wanted_ to feel the life drain from his victim. He’d pictured Hannibal so vividly, channelling every frustration and betrayal into beating Randall Tier, snapping his neck like he’d fantasised snapping Dr. Lecter’s.

And then he’d taken him straight to the good doctor himself. Laid him out for him on his dining room table.

And Hannibal had taken Will aside, washed him, bandaged him. Consoled him.

_“I’ve never felt as alive as I did when I was killing him.”_

It had been true. He’d pictured Lecter’s face, but did it matter? The murderers he hunted often had similar tales; a misplaced rage that found an outlet in a compatible victim.

He’d given up on telling himself it was self-defence the moment he discarded the gun. He could’ve overpowered and detained Randal Tier. He hadn’t _wanted_ to.

What had followed was _certainly_ not self-defence. It had taken days to arrange the body the way it had been found. Days of careful planning, of experimenting with methods to hold everything in place, to – in a sense – honour the creature Randall had wanted to become.

It made it easier, he had realised; Randall _wanted_ to become this monster. Will had helped him achieve that, while also preventing him from hurting anyone else.

And Hannibal had been, undeniably, proud.

He’d told Jack, and himself, that this was part of the trap being laid for the Chesapeake Ripper. Ingratiate himself to Hannibal. Let him expose himself in front of Will.

Now, Will felt more like he’d exposed _himself_.

Even once Hannibal was locked away, Will would have to live with that part of himself. Live with knowing exactly what he was capable of, and _worse_ – how much he would miss it.

Two paths branched out before him, but one – Hannibal’s – was a dead end. The investigation was closing in. Either they kill everyone involved – primarily Jack and Freddie Lounds, but possibly Alana as well, which he knew he wouldn’t be able to do – or… What? Get arrested together? Go on the run as the FBI’s most wanted? And what would he and Hannibal do – go on a cannibalistic road trip? Try and build a new life somewhere under invented identities? It was stupid. There was nothing there. For all he knew, Hannibal would kill him.

After all, he’d killed Abigail.

He shouldn’t even be considering it. He knows what side he’s on.

He finally finds the willpower to leave the car, slamming the door behind him and trudging through the snow to his front door. Already, the sound of snuffling noses and excited scratching at the door is calming him, and he smiles at one of the furry faces watching him through the window as he unlocks the door.

Two steps into the house, and he knows something is wrong.

His chest tightens as he takes stock of the laptop sitting open on his bed.

He doesn’t own a laptop.

His hand reaches instinctively for his weapon, fingers wrapping around the grip. He sweeps the house, but finds no other evidence of anyone having been inside. The dogs are calm, if confused by his stress, and trot along after him as he runs to each window, checking the ground outside for footprints, or any other hint of who has been in his home.

It wouldn’t have been Jack. No one at Quantico. Mason Verger is dead, but it _might_ be Margot.

He is kidding himself. He _knows_ who it is.

He sees no point in delaying. It’s been left here for a reason, so he sits himself on the bed a taps the touchpad.

The screen lights up, and its already running, no password or login required.

The entire screen is taken up with a video player, a black screen with a large “play” button. He presses the space bar, and the video begins.

The lights turn on, and Will sees himself in a dark room, next to a man tied securely to a gurney.

 _No_.

He startles when he hears Hannibal’s voice through the speakers. “ _No introductions are necessary._ ”

He must be sitting just off screen. Will remembers this. He knows what is about to happen.

_It was just a dream._

He watches. He doesn’t move, barely blinks. He stares at the screen, watches himself gut and rip and tear, sometimes with tools, sometimes with his bare hands.

Occasionally, he hears Hannibal’s running commentary in the background. He calmly makes suggestions, admires Will’s work.

_It wasn’t real._

He can’t look away. He can’t seem to turn his head, rooted to the spot in rage at the reveal of yet another betrayal.

The camera angle suddenly switches – a cut to another camera, this one facing an empty chair.

“ _Sit with me, Will._ ”

He wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

He watches himself, covered head to toe in gore, gingerly taking a seat on the screen.

He knows what he is about to do.

It doesn’t make it easier.

“ _You are aroused._ ”

Humiliating. Every second, dragged further into Lecter’s sick games.

Why this? Why _now_? To torture him?

He watches himself, but part of his mind has already moved on from reeling in fury to _calculating_. What is Lecter’s play here? He’s handed Will evidence on a silver platter. It’s Hannibal’s voice in the recording. Will can send this straight to Jack. Hannibal can’t let him have this evidence and let him just walk away. He’s covered his tracks so perfectly up to this point.

Does he think that Will won’t turn in this evidence because it also incriminates Will? Does Hannibal really think that would stop him?

The pieces don’t fit together. Something doesn’t make sense…

That line of thinking is interrupted by his own moans, sounding slightly tinny through the laptop speakers.

He watches the feeble shadow of himself coming undone at Hannibal Lecter’s words, burning with shame and a deep, searing hatred. _How dare he_.

The video doesn’t finish when he does.

Instead, it cuts to a shot of himself and Hannibal sitting in what Will recognises as Hannibal’s bathroom – the one adjoining his bedroom. Hannibal actually smiles directly at the camera, giving a little wave, before he washes Will carefully.

It’s so startlingly similar to the night that Hannibal washed his wounds when he’d brought him the body of Randall Tier. The same soft, light touches that speak of deep affection.

It’s such a stark contrast to everything before – it makes his head spin.

_What the hell is this?_

The Hannibal onscreen speaks to Will in hushed tones, voice low and calm. There’s a tenderness in every interaction that is, somehow, harder to watch than the torture porn.

 _It’s like a love letter. From the Chesapeake Ripper_.

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make _sense_.

His phone ringing startles him so badly that his entire body jolts, and he fumbles it out of his pocket.

The caller ID, predictably, is one Hannibal Lecter.

He is tempted to reject the call, but he doesn’t. He answers it and yells directly into the receiver, “ _Fuck you!_ ”

“Hi, Will.”

His heart seizes in his chest at the voice.

It can’t-

No.

“Did you watch it yet?”

Tears prick at his eyes. He rubs his mouth with his palm, head spinning.

“He said you might be upset, but he wanted you to see it.”

“Abigail,” Will breathes, feeling the rage drain from him completely, leaving him hollow. “You… You’re…?”

“Hannibal says we’re moving. We just wanted to know if you were coming with us.”

 _It’s like a love letter_.

“Moving?”

“Yeah. Are you coming with us?”

There are two paths.

They are both open.

Will chooses.

“… Okay.”


End file.
